


Lullaby for the Green Wood

by enemytosleep



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Affectionate Insults, F/M, Traditions, Understanding, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemytosleep/pseuds/enemytosleep
Summary: It’s rare moments like these in which Balthier can observe the lives of viera as their traditions call; so used to each of their disgraces he’s grown in only a few short years, where culture and tradition were what he and Fran made them and not their forebears. He supposes within him are such callings as Fran is called to the spirits of the forest now: things that are inextricably entwined in his very being, no matter how painful their very existence may be.______Or the fic where Fran shares a little of her old life with Balthier.
Relationships: Balthier/Fran (Ivalice Alliance)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: fandomtrees





	Lullaby for the Green Wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welsper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsper/gifts).



Balthier lowers the hood of his cloak and breathes a sigh of relief. Now that they have entered into the forest proper, the glacial winds have less reach, their howls a muffled echo dulled by layers of conifer and the crisp crunch of his boots on icy snow.

“Shall we add winter storms to the many reasons to avoid Archaedia, dear Fran?”

“There are many places in Ivalice where the ice winds prevail.”

“Quite true, though I’m keen to avoid such places as well.” He rubs his gloved hands over his face, half-numb and prickling as the friction fails to heat skin. “After this, what would you say to a short stay in Balfonheim? A bit of time on the coast would do us both some good, I think.”

He stops walking when she doesn’t answer. “Fran?”

She stands a few paces behind him and wears that look of hers: of mysterious contemplation, fierce eyes gazing beyond the realm of humes as her tall ears twitch and swivel on alert. She is beautiful like this, always is so, but now is not the time for flatteries. 

Quietly, he moves his hand to his hip and the pistol that is strapped there — but then he abandons the effort. She’s not arming herself now, only listening … or perhaps waiting. 

“And what do these trees speak, should they deign to share secrets with mere mortals at all?”

She laughs, one short burst under her breath. “My ears may be dull, but I can still hear the cries. The storm is harsh, and the Wood is unused to company. It has been many years since anyone last came seeking the Laelim ruins.”

He makes his way closer to her. She meets his eye and her expression softens, but only slightly. The subject of the Green Word is a touchy one with Fran, and it pains him to see her fret over it still. He stands beside her and follows her gaze deeper into what must be the heart of this forest. Somewhere in the distance, a branch cracks in the wind and crashes down in a clattering cacophony. The more he concentrates on the trees around them, the more he swears he can hear their sadness. It feels empty here, lonely even, or perhaps he’s simply cold and longing for the warmth of a hearth and a shared bed. Often, this would be his cue for a bit of wit to lighten the mood, but when it comes to the voices only viera can hear, he knows he must be patient. 

After a few long moments, Fran approaches one of thicker trees, placing her palm against its trunk where woodland mesmenir and chocobo have stripped the bark. “When the Paramina winds blow strong and westward, the songmakers of Eruyt would sing to the Wood to comfort them against the biting sting of winter and lull them to sleep.”

“Will you sing for this Wood, then?”

“I am no songmaker … but I will offer what comforts I can.” 

She closes her eyes and breathes out through her nostrils in a long, slow exhale. It’s rare moments like these in which Balthier can observe the lives of viera as their traditions call; so used to each of their disgraces he’s grown in only a few short years, where culture and tradition were what he and Fran made them and not their forebears. He supposes within him are such callings as Fran is called to the spirits of the forest now: things that are inextricably entwined in his very being, no matter how painful their very existence may be. 

“Would it help if I sang?” He touches her shoulder gently, then squeezes.

She chuckles darkly. “Surely this Wood has suffered enough already.”

He playfully shoves her shoulder as he laughs. “Then we should continue our journey, if only to complete it that much sooner.”

“Yes.” Fran clenches her jaw, clearly biting back her thoughts. “The ruins await.”

“And its treasure, if luck is on our side.”


End file.
